


The Noble Savage

by Cerdic519



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Buffalo Bill's Show, London, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-31
Updated: 2014-03-31
Packaged: 2018-01-17 17:51:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1396999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a little drabble that occurred to me whilst playing a computer game, and suddenly imagining Castiel as whatever the politically correct term is this week is for the folks there before Cabot and Columbus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Noble Savage

**Author's Note:**

> This story is set in Victorian England, so the term 'Red Indian' is correct. If you find history offensive - get a life!

London, England, Anno Domini 1887

 

There were times when Dean Winchester hated his job, and this was one of them.

 

He had been taken on by William Cody, better known to all and sundry as Buffalo Bill, almost exactly ten years ago, whilst the great man’s show had been touring through Kansas. And he might have remained a backroom boy, sweeping up after the horses for the rest of his days, had it not been for the guy his current party of tourists was gaping at from behind the safety of the bars. Safety they assumed, that was; Dean knew the guy could vault those high metal bars and be on them in seconds if he had so wanted.

 

Castiel.

 

The young man was sitting outside his teepee, apparently busy tending a fire, although Dean knew he was fully aware of the approaching party.

 

“Is he dangerous?” one young lady asked, looking set to faint already. Dean chuckled.

 

“No, ma’am”, he said, stressing his Midwestern accent as always for the Brits. “His tribe is pretty peaceful, and he knows better than to harm visitors. I’ll go talk with him.”

 

“He speaks English?” a portly elderly man inquired.

 

Dean grinned at him.

 

“Watch”, he said enigmatically, and unlocked the door to the cage to let himself in, before pointedly locking it after him. By the fire, Castiel gave no reaction to his presence until he sat down opposite him, whereon he laid his knife down flatlings between them.

 

“That’s a sign of peace”, Dean explained to the watching crowd. “I turn it over like this” – he suited the action to the words – “and that means I accept his terms.”

 

“Does he eat people?” a small boy asked, cowering behind his mother.

 

Castiel produced a small bag, and took out two stones which he passed to Dean, who looked at them before returning them.

 

“Runestones”, he explained to the watching crowd. “They let him talk to me. And the answer is no; he only hunts animals.”

 

“What’s the biggest thing he’s ever caught?” a tall bronzed man asked.

 

More stones were handed over.

 

“A giant stag”, Dean said. “He tracked it for…. six days before killing it.”

 

There were some appreciative gasps from the audience.

 

“Does he ever scalp people?” the boy who had spoken earlier piped up.

 

Dean smirked at the stones he was given.

 

“He says not usually, but you have a very nicely shaped head.”

 

The boy squeaked in horror, and promptly ducked behind his mother. Castiel gave Dean a look, but remained silent, until he suddenly stood up and crossed his arms, bowing once before retreating inside his teepee.

 

“His gods are speaking to him”, Dean said in an awed tone. “Sorry, folks, but that’s the one thing we don’t interrupt. But we’ll swing by here again later, if you like.”

 

There were more appreciative noises from his audience, as he took them off to see the wild horses.

 

+~+~+

 

Buffalo Bill’s show had come to London to take part in Queen Victoria’s Golden Jubilee. Fifty years on the throne, and although the woman was never seen out of the black mourning dress she wore for her late husband Albert, she was clearly much loved by the English. The show was doing good business, and Dean looked forward to a larger than usual pay packet later that week. Although unlike most of his colleagues, it would not be immediately frittered away on the taverns and whores of London Town. Another few years of saving, and Dean would be able to retire to a small house in his native Kansas, and live out the rest of his days in quiet.

 

He was staying in a small hotel not far from the display ground. Sharing with Castiel meant that the other workers steered well clear of his room, particularly after that time one of them had drunkenly burst in on him, only to find Castiel’s knife at his throat in seconds. Dean had subsequently explained to his bosses that, ever since he had found the man living alone in the wilderness, Castiel had appointed himself Dean’s personal protector, and thus took rather badly to any perceived threat. Which at least meant Dean always got his own room, well away from anyone else, and in this case, in his own hotel.

 

It was late by the time he reached his room, but Castiel wasn’t there. That didn’t surprise Dean; he knew the man had been fascinated by London, and had wanted to spend some time just wandering round and looking. He wondered if any of the city’s criminals would try to get the jump on the nerdy-looking guy in the long coat. If they did, it would probably be the last mistake they ever made.

 

He came back from the bathroom wearing his dressing-gown, and Castiel still wasn’t back. But that was okay; he would come in in his own good time, lay out his traveling rug next to Dean’s bed, and then…. happy times!

 

+~+~+

 

Dean awoke some time later realizing that, most unusually, he was cold. This never happened; he always had a solid six foot of Red Indian muscle next to him, so much better than a hot water bottle. But tonight, he could clearly make out Castiel lying on his rug for once, and not asleep, judging from the glimmer in those dark eyes of his.

 

“Cas?” Dean said sleepily. “Wassup?”

 

Barely a second later, he was suddenly aware of cold steel pressed against his chest. He stared up in confusion at the man kneeling over him.

 

“Three weeks of constant needling, Dean Winchester!” the man snarled. “Three weeks of a jibe here, a put-down there, and that scalping comment was the last straw. I think it’s high time you were put in your place!”

 

Dean was caught between terror at the bare weapon he could feel against him and a strange kind of euphoria that he had brought out the savage in his mate. Not that Castiel was really a Red Indian; he was a by-blow of an affair between a settler and a squaw, who had been scraping a living in the taverns of Kansas when Dean found him. The story of his rescuing Castiel from a tribe that kidnapped him was just for public consumption.

 

“What’re you gonna do?” he breathed, terrified one moment as to what the man might do to him, and equally terrified the next what he might not.

 

Castiel smirked at him.

 

“I’m gonna teach you a painful lesson, Dean Winchester”, he growled. “The most painful lesson a man in your position can ever learn. And until you agree to do it, then your bed’s gonna be mighty empty!”

 

With that, he eased himself back down to his mat, and was silent. Dean stared at him, then scowled. Fine. If the guy thought he couldn’t do without sex for a while, then he had another think coming.

 

+~+~+

 

Two days later, visitors to the Noble Savage enclosure were treated to a change from the usual. The Red Indian himself was sitting cross-legged outside his teepee, smiling away, whilst chained to a post behind him was a captured settler, his chain just long enough to allow him to go in and out of the teepee to do his chores of washing and cleaning. The visitors’ guide explained that this particular tribe used captured men as extra women, since they were clearly no good at fighting. Dean scowled as he spoke, but carried on washing the clothes until they had all moved on. He pointedly ignored Castiel's smirk.

 

“Today only!” he hissed.

 

“Actually, Mr. Cody said that you were such a hit, he might make you a permanent feature!” Castiel teased.

 

“What?”

 

Castiel looked at him, then promptly creased up.

 

“I hate you!” Dean scowled.

 

The Red Indian sidled up to him.

 

“Today only”, he agreed. “And tonight…. I’ll make it up to you. Promise!”

 

There were times when Dean Winchester loved his job, and this was one of them.


End file.
